


An Excellent Host

by bramblePatch



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-08
Updated: 2011-03-08
Packaged: 2017-10-16 19:37:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/168629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bramblePatch/pseuds/bramblePatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snowman and Doc Scratch enjoy a brief respite from the chaos of their coworkers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Excellent Host

**Author's Note:**

> captchalogue prompt:  
> There needs to be more fanfic with him. Between the recent update, the good host statement and how cheerfully he set everything up for Slick, he seems like he just wants people to like him. Not like sobby why-doesn't-anyone-wub-me, but happy to do stuff for people.
> 
> Host!Scratch and someone fic, or him with the Felt maybe?

She's ill at ease as she sits in his rooms and sips his tea, and Snowman hates herself for it. It's not her host's fault, after all, that he's too white, too inscrutably benevolent, like some sort of walking caricature of the Prospitians who she spent most of her previous life opposing.

So she nods, and smiles, and returns his small talk, and compliments his tea (it _is_ very good tea), and tries not to betray the way that his voice sometimes makes the inside of her carapace itch. He knows, she's sure; there's precious little that he doesn't know. Sometimes he revels in his preternaturalness, in the alien nature that sets him apart even in the bizarre society built of escaped bits of universe-code and beings so mutated by their contact with pure elemental time that Snowman's not sure what they were originally - but this is not one of those times. Now, he seems to take comfort in the trappings of a simple social encounter, and she humors him.

Soon enough, they'll be back to the hectic strangeness that passes for everyday life in the Felt mansion - the invitation to take tea with Scratch came with the warning that their afternoon would be ended by the necessity of helping to sort out an incident that would involve Itchy, Eggs, eighty gallons of instant pudding, and an industrial-strength electric fan. But for now, he's pouring her another cup instants before she begins to ask, and inquiring about her work with the Sgrub stations. Again, she knows that _he_ knows the answers without being told, but there's something about being able to talk it through that puts her thoughts in order and her mind at rest, and she supposes that he knows that, too.

And there's really no one else who she can discuss this with, not really. Half of her fellow Felt are too dull to understand, and the other half just don't care - and why should they, when the game has nothing to do with them? Oh, Stitch would probably let her talk at him while he worked, or Die would put up with her simply because she's the one person he can't get away from with the jab of a pin, but being tolerated is not the same as as being listened to. Her fellow Exiles might be a better bet, but those who have not directly allied themselves with her former mutinous archagent have long since learned to give a wide berth to both Felt and Midnight Crew. Scratch, for all of his unsettling otherworldliness, is an attentive and intelligent listener and she find herself grateful for his company in spite of herself.

She makes a few polite inquiries of her own, but either his answers are evasive or she simply does not have the correct frame of reference from which to understand his work. She suspects that it's some of one and a bit of the other - she is under no illusion that the universe's dependence upon her existence puts her on the same level of being as Scratch. Snowman was once a monarch of Derse, after all; she knows the theory at least of what goes into the making of a First Guardian, and knows that even had she kept that damnable ring she would still be nowhere near as powerful as a being infused with the power of the Green Sun. Scratch functions several levels above her, or anyone else she knows. (She does not count her employer in this; Snowman has never actually met Lord English, and from what she understands of the demon, she is perfectly content to allow this state of events to continue.) Any time Scratch interacts with someone else, mortal or carapace or time-twisted green torso, she suspects that he is making a conscious effort to be personable.

At any rate, he smoothly turns the conversation back to more accessible topics; to her work again, to the interpersonal dynamics of the Felt and to the latest irritating activities of the Midnight Crew. He makes her laugh with a dry observation about some facet of their improbable existence, and the sound of her own throaty chuckle surprises her.

His laugh, on the rare occasions that it slips out, is harsh and annoying and oddly artificial-sounding, and Snowman thinks that it is quite alright with her if he keeps up his dry, impassive attitude.

All too soon (and why does she think that, when she accepted the invitation merely to humor him? But it does seem too soon), he looks up suddenly and quietly excuses himself to go answer his door, although no knock or ring has sounded. She starts to get up, to follow, and suddenly Scratch is behind her, pulling out her chair as she stands. Snowman allows herself to relish being treated like a lady, when so often in this mansion the closest she'll get is when one of the Felt will belatedly deck another for daring to swear in front of her.

She suspects that she knows what's going on now, and sure enough there's Clover waiting when they open the door, his face dotted with a few gobs of butterscotch and tapioca - although of course he's much too lucky to have to worry about pudding stains on his suit. They really should come, he laughs, Matchsticks is effectively glued to the wall and someone managed to drop Crowbar's crowbar in the vat of pudding and it's hilarious. Oh, and no one has seen Itchy in at least a quarter of an hour.

Snowman sighs, and retrieves her hat, and thanks Scratch for a lovely afternoon, because it _was_ lovely despite her reservations and the fact that he still gives her the creeps. Whatever else he is, Doc Scratch is an excellent host.


End file.
